


Narcissus Perfected

by TactheJoker



Category: The Prestige (2006)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TactheJoker/pseuds/TactheJoker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root has a dark dream, and with Angier he can at last fullfill it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second fanfiction I ever wrote.

Root really was a well-educated man.  
Oh, not that one could tell by looking at him, but he had received some of the best schooling available. Bastard of it was that he had slipped into a bottle one night, when he was twenty, and had rarely poked his head out since.  
In the past, he would stick his head out occasionally to bug his family for money, as he had squandered most of his on bad deals and the ever-present bottle. But, that avenue had long been closed-down, and he’d had to find other means to acquire money; not only for his debts, but also his drinking habit.  
He had, however, poked his nose out in drunken interest when he received a strange offer from an old clout named Cutter one night; an offer to be a ‘double’ for a magician. The old man said if he took this job and didn’t squawk about it, he would be well-paid, and that was all Root needed to hear. So, he rose up from the dregs of his half-empty bottle to follow the old man to a wonderful old theater to meet his employer.  
When he saw his benefactor, Rupert Angier, an odd, old memory, sunk deep in the recesses of his alcohol-soaked brain, made a rare appearance.  
He had a sister, Rebecca, a woman of high standing who had turned her back on her little brother, as had the rest of their family. But, in their younger years, the two had been close, and one of their delights had been taking turns reading to each other at night. Rebecca’s favorite material to read to Root was Greek and Roman mythology, and they would stay up until the candles burned down to their holders, listening to each other read.  
Root’s favorite story back then had been about Narcissus, the young man who fell in love with his own reflection while the woman who loved him, Echo, pined away fruitlessly for him. Young Root had been so swept away by such a sad tale that, even now, he spent many long nights lying awake in bed, wondering at how someone could become so enamored with himself.  
Tonight, after so many years of wondering, Root finally understood.  
Seeing a flesh and blood copy of himself, standing not an arm’s reach from him, sent a familiar lustful feeling rushing to his loins and heated the room. It was a version of him as his parents would have liked to have seen him; shaven, clean, dressed in finery, and without the ever-present smell of liquor hanging about him. Root thought it was some trick of said alcohol, but after a few discreet pinches, and a firm shake from a soft hand he started to think that maybe he wasn’t dreaming.  
Before he knew what he was doing he signed a contract with his doppelganger and stumbled out the door to his dank apartment to drink half of his emergency store of alcohol with a desperate need before his ale-saturated muscles failed him, causing him to fall to the floor propped up only by his bed. As the alcohol dragged him down into unconsciousness he saw his prim and proper double loom up before him, and swoop down upon his limp body to cover him in a secret blackness, where there was nothing to hide, nothing he could hide, and no questions to be asked.  
Not even about his heated loins, or his shamelessly stained trousers.


	2. Chapter 2

They practiced every day.   
Angier’s refusal to slow down and determination to make this silly trick work wore Root down, but he held his temper in check to be near this man who wore his face.  
They cleaned him up to look like the proper gentleman his family would have been proud of, bought him some new clothes because (Root was sure) Angier couldn’t stand the thought of a drunkard wearing his, no matter if the man looked like him. Root didn’t mind, he kept quiet, he was only doing this for one reason, and (it came as a surprise to him) it wasn’t for the drinking-money.   
He watched Angier closely, he did as he was told, his every move, his every gesture, had to be spot-on. Root knew all this, his time in the theater served him well during practice; he memorized all his motions when he was given them, and was quick to discard them when Angier or Cutter thought of something better. The three of them worked hard, and were very serious about the performance as a whole; Cutter, Angier, and Root knew that there could be no doubts in the audience’s mind about what they had seen; there was no margin for error in timing. It all had to be convincing, and it had to be precise.  
When the end of the long days would finally come Root would walk back to his apartment in the dark, passing by the bars, not even give them a second glance; he would make straight for home, and would lay on his weary body down on his bed and he would stare up at the beams of his ceiling. He would lay awake for hours, seeing Angier’s, his, face floating above him. He imagined the way Angier walked, they way he turned; in truth Root was admiring himself as Angier trotted about for him, paraded his, their, body about the stage, flourished their arms, waved their hands, tossed their pretty head, ran their strong but delicate hands though their hair, unbuttoned their collar to relieve some of the heat. Root would smirk when he thought about that, and think of Narcissus, and how he had wondered at the strangeness of loving yourself to the point that no one else compared to your own face, your own body, your own touch.   
Tonight, in his gloomy apartment the Greek mythos rode his mind relentlessly; the strangeness of such an action worrying at his mind with an intensity it had never shown before; the question of Narcissus falling in love with his reflection…was that possible? Root swung his long legs over the side of his bed, stood, and strode over to the large, cracked vanity mirror in the corner, his one reminder of the soft life he could have had if he had not discovered the bottle. He rested his arm on the stand that held the mirror, pondering it for a time, wondering at its mystery and that of the mythos.   
‘Is it possible?’  
He adjusted the mirror slightly, forward and back, giving himself the best view of his reflection. He paused a moment to observe himself, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt.  
He worked his way down to his navel and touched his hand to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart-beat, then slid his hand under his covered side and cupped his left breast, fingertips brushing his soft nipple. He stripped himself of his shirt, tossing it carelessly on the floor; he watched himself in the mirror as the fingers of his right hand stroked his right nipple. He unconsciously pressed against the cold surface of the mirror as he watched, entranced, as his hand gently, gradually, coaxed the soft circle into erection. The little nub was held prisoner by his hand’s index and middle finger; he pressed into the cold glass and gasped at its chill on the tender skin.   
He looked up to see Angier looking back at him, so close, he felt the heat build between his legs and kissed Angier on the lips.  
He met only cold glass.  
In shock he released his lips from the mirror; they left a steamed imprint behind, momentarily blocking his face from view. Root stared at his reflection, anger and slight disgust at himself rising in his belly to replace the feelings of lust. What had he been doing? What had he been thinking? The desire he had felt for himself…it confused him, and what confused him even more was the fact that the more he thought about what he had wanted to do the more he wanted to do it! The man that stared back at him from the flat and cold world of the mirror was full of anger, his face slowly contorting with rage at the realization that he could not have the one thing he now knew he desired with all his heart.   
But, after a moment of clarity, his twisted mouth turned up into a cruel smile.   
In the mirror he saw a person he desired, a man he had lusted after all these years, ever since he was young, but had never acknowledged it until this moment. He saw the body of the man he was and physical lust raged through him, his own body, and his own beauty made him desperate to pull his reflection out of the glass and take what he wanted. But what he also saw in the mirror held him back, because that man was not him. The man he saw in that blessed and damnable mirror was the man he could have been had alcohol not taken over his life; a man his family could be proud to call their own, a man he would have been proud to be.  
This man was the performer he had once been, a character on stage who transfixed the masses that sat in staring awe before him; he had had that power once, but it was now lost to him.   
That man, while still arousing great desire in his physical body, also roused a deep-seated anger that, like this new-found lust, he had never come to terms with.  
But he paused, because…this man that he hated and loved…why…he bore a striking resemblance to Angier, didn’t he?!  
And with that the twisted wheels in Root’s head began to turn and planted the first seeds of true evil in his mind.  
Angier had it all now, fame, fortune, both would surely double when his clever trick came out onto the stage for the public to see; and the fool would squander it all away on a petty rivalry; oh what he himself could have done with such fame!  
There! He had it! Excitement built up in him as realization after realization arose. With this last line of putrid thinking he was now justified in all his horrid thoughts, and his resulting actions would now have a good purpose behind them! What he wanted would not, could not be denied him now because he could pass it off as a necessary act to save Angier from himself!   
He smiled; oh he would teach the lovely magician an important lesson, and that gave him reason to do whatever he wanted to his doppelganger. His smile turned into a wide grin and he touched the mirror’s chill surface, stroking the reflected image of his, Angier’s face. Yes…he would take Angier to himself, for himself, he would take himself, he would see his own body rise up in passion underneath him; the mere image of such an action almost caused him to swoon as a new wave of lust came over him. And this wave gave him more drive to do what his dark mind conjured.  
He sobered slightly when he realized he would have to plan everything as carefully as the magician’s trick if he wanted his fantasy to work; he didn’t want anything to backfire on him, before, during, or after he was through. But once he did what he was set on doing, on that glorious night when everything would fall into place, he would take Angier, penetrate him, and in doing so accomplish what Narcissus had failed to do so long ago.   
Narcissus had been a fool, falling in love with a cold reflection that melted into water and broke to pieces whenever he tried to touch it, whenever he tried to kiss it! A man could not survive on the image of lust; he needed the flesh moving under him, the cries filling his ears, the lips opening to his!  
Narcissus almost had it, but had fallen short and had wasted away loving an intangible thing; he never felt all that Root wanted to feel, what he would feel, but Root would change that.   
He would become the new Narcissus!   
Root wanted to see himself, feel himself, penetrate himself! He wanted fulfillment! He wanted empowerment! He wanted control!   
He wanted Angier.  
Angier was the key, Angier held what he wanted, what he needed!  
With Angier, Root would be Narcissus perfected!


	3. Chapter 3

Root was very busy that week.  
Not only with practice and helping set the theater up properly, but with all the little errands he had to run to make his particular trick work. With the money he was given and had saved away he stole down to the docks late at night and paid a visit to the opium shops run by the odd Chinamen where their Faye slanted eyes and the help of their mystifying incense saw everything the wealthy tried to hide. Be it excursions with low-class prostitutes (the obscenely young, the experienced old, the feminine, or the not-so-obvious masculine), anything the rich wanted they were given; down here you could have just about anything you wanted, or if they didn’t have it they would let you taste of their mystic flower and in a dream-world of your own creation you could find your desire.   
For a price of course, always for a price. Not just money, though that was certainly needed, but you paid with security for your fellow patrons; you helped keep the peace of mind that your secrets and those of the others would never be told to outsiders by the owners of these stores and you trusted the others, your new-found ‘friends’ to keep this secret for you, and they did like-wise. Privacy was paramount here, privacy was the law, and privacy was the business.  
In the back room of a shop like this Root was able to purchase the necessary items he needed. No questions asked in this place.


	4. Chapter 4

It was two days before the opening night when Root realized something important.   
Narcissus and Angier were a lot alike.  
The more he thought about it the truer it became. In their lives they both reached for something intangible; Narcissus reached out to capture his reflection and Angier was desperately reaching out for the revenge that would never truly be his. Root knew it would accomplish nothing, it would not bring Angier’s woman back as the poor man seemed to hope it might.   
No, Narcissus would never capture his reflection, and Angier would never be satisfied with his rival’s death; but Root would succeed. This new revelation gave him the final sign he needed that what he would do was what was right. ‘How wonderful, and how appropriate,’ Root thought. ‘It is only right that I overtake such a man who resembles my predecessor in his actions. I will take great pleasure in this Angier, you may not, for no mythos-man enjoys being usurped from his throne, but I assure you that I will enjoy this very much’


	5. Chapter 5

The show had gone over well, Root knew it would; Angier was a fine performer, and so was he when he was sober. He had been for the past month. His sobriety, however, had nothing to do with the want to get paid, or with the thrilling need for concentration it took to be on stage again, although those were good reasons; no, he remained sober for one reason and one reason only.  
Angier.  
His desire; all he did was for Angier and all of his preparation was for the soul purpose of his lust. The man was a fine magician indeed, but all of Angier’s tricks would pale in comparison before what Root had so carefully planned. He would not put his plan into action tonight, oh no, he’d let Angier have his time in the sun; he would give Angier the moment of triumph over his rival for now, no need to rush things.  
So the performances continued, each going off without a hitch; Cutter, Angier, and even Root himself devised ways to change the show up just enough so the audience would not grow tired of the trick; Root knew how important this aspect of performing was, it also helped him gain Angier’s trust, but not Cutter. The old man had seen too many acts like this ruined in his long history for a myriad of reasons so he kept his eye annoyingly close on the two of them. The old stage-hand was very protective of the younger magician; the two of them knew Angier’s mental state was questionable due to his obsessive feud with Borden, so the old man decided to himself that Angier needed to be under a loose surveillance.  
Root did not let this bother him; he knew what needed to be done to get Cutter off of his back, he had planed it all out.


	6. Chapter 6

The big night came.  
Once again the trick was greeted with a standing ovation, the added changes (some of Roots own suggestion) gave the show the needed flavor that would have soon worn off, and the act went off without a hitch.  
‘Now,’ Root thought with glee. “Now it’s time for Act Two.”  
He had a short amount of time between the closing bows (which he gave), curtain fall, and Cutter helping Angier out from underneath the stage to slip the sleeping drug into Cutter’s flask that he drank from after every performance. Root had found it early that week, and had nicked it just minutes before the performance. How Root had been able to slip into Cutter’s room and back out without being noticed had been a miracle in itself that he was still reeling from, but the fact that he had at all gave fortification to his belief that he was doing the right thing. “It’s a sign from God, if you believe in such things.” He thought to himself as he carefully poured the sleeping-drought into the small mouth of the flask. That finished he ran as fast and as silently as he could upstairs where Cutter’s room was and tucked it away in the top left drawer of the old man’s writing desk where he had found it.   
He flew back down the stairs knowing, trusting, that Angier would still be greeting the enthralled audience; Cutter would still be hiding behind the doors and peering out into the crowd, watching for any signs of trouble specifically trouble that came from spying a certain rival magician amongst the milling people. Yes, Cutter should be doing just that right now.  
He hoped. In desperation he hoped.  
His heart pounded with the strength of John Henry’s sledgehammers as he slowed down near the bottom of the stairs, and rounded the last corner to the front doors; he released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and peered around the corner.  
The Fates granted Providence to be with him tonight; Cutter stood there as always with one of the large doors cracked open just enough so he could observe. Root made sure that his heavy breathing was under control before he made any attempt to join the old stage-hand.  
“Borden out there?” He asked, and Cutter shook his head.  
“No, no I don’t hold much fear for that anymore; if he was going to do something he would have done it by now I’m sure, but I’m not going to let my guard down. Borden will make his move soon, I’m sure.”   
“You’re instincts are off old man.” Thought Root. “It’s not Borden you should be looking out for tonight.” He smiled and watched with Cutter until all the patrons had left for home. Angier came back behind the large doors, smiling, but a little crest-fallen as he was after every performance. Root understood the man’s sad look completely; it must be difficult to sit in the darkness beneath the stage while someone else took the applause and credit for your talent. It was sad, but the magician had made his decision to do this particular trick, and there was no backing out; especially not when it was doing so well.  
“Well,” said Angier. “Another fine performance, and another night of wool-over-eyes achieved; excellent work again Root. That intro you re-wrote was superb, and the exiting flourish was a nice touch.”  
Root shrugged, “What is entertainment but polished and re-painted old tricks, eh? The audience never seems to notice that they have seen it before until after they have paid and gone, thankfully.” They chuckled for a moment, and Cutter said he was going to call it a night; after wishing the two of them well, and disappearing up the stairs Root enquired if Angier would care to take a break, and celebrate another successful night. “After all,” he said. “You’ve been working and worrying yourself to death; you are starting to look akin to a wandering ghost, and you won’t be doing anyone any favors if you have some sort of break-down before the next show.”  
“I really shouldn’t,” Protested the magician. “If we were seen side by side by someone who came to one of the performances then we shall be had; that’ll be it for us.”  
“Well I don’t mean out at some bar of course. I meant at my apartment; I hosted one or two after-show parties when I was still in the theater, and trust me you need a night to let go.”   
Angier still looked a little doubtful, but after pointing out it was far too dark for anyone to get a look at them, promising that they would not leave the apartment at all, and some more comments on how some whisky would put some much-needed color back into his cheeks Root persuaded the magician to come.  
“I am sure,” Root added as they walked out into the lamp-lit street. “Cutter will rest easier knowing that you are out and about again.”  
Unfortunately Cutter could not agree, or disagree with Root in the restfulness of his drug-induced sleep, and remained slumped onto his desk with the tainted fluid leaking out of his flask as the washed-up performer with his unsuspecting, and unfortunate victim rounded the corner and disappeared into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

“And now,” thought Root. “It is time for Act Three.” He closed and locked the door behind him.  
He had taken the liberty of tiding up his apartment for the occasion, and a grand occasion it was indeed. He had barely comprehended the conversation they had been having as they traveled into the seedier part of town where Root’s home was; he had been too excited, and too pre-occupied with trying to keep himself under control until the right moment.  
There was still one thing left to do.  
He offered Angier a chair and produced a bottle of wine. “A special brand.” He had said, and he wasn’t lying as he poured some into a cup for his ill-fated guest; the mixture of opium and whatever else that Chinaman had added was mixed in with the spirit this morning, and he watched intently as Angier drank the first cup down.  
“Will you not have any?” Root was jolted out of his reverie, and shook his head. “No; I’ve been cutting back for the show’s sake, and seem to have lost my taste for it.” “But in loosing one addiction I have gained another.”  
Angier nodded his approval and proffered his cup for more; Root gladly obliged. 

* * *

Robert drank the wine gratefully and politely listened to Root talk about how much he enjoyed being back on the stage again; he didn’t mind Root that much, he might have even liked him, but the fact that this man wore his face…That disturbed Angier more than he would like to admit. Root actually made him nervous most of the time, but that could be because he was anxious about the show, and desperate to strike out at Borden. Cutter was right, he needed to relax more, and the wine seemed to be doing the trick. He felt more loose and relaxed than he had when they were walking, and he was adding more to the conversation he realized.   
Root filled his cup again, and Robert drank. As the night wore on a fog had drifted into Angier’s head, and he started to have trouble focusing his eyes, and following the conversation; he even found the room was starting to spin and become greyer and greyer. He felt as though he were floating, and briefly wondered if he was swaying in his seat. If he was he hoped Root wouldn’t notice and become offended. 

* * *

Alas for Robert Root did notice, but was not offended in the least. He was quite excited actually; Angier’s eyes had become glazed and he was swaying slightly in his seat. Root could almost not contain himself.   
After waiting few more minutes to be sure the drug had taken full effect he reached out, clutched the back of Angier’s head, leaned forward, and planted a kiss on the drugged magician’s lips; they were so soft. He pulled away after a moment, and Angier’s expression was one of bewilderment, but being drugged as he was he couldn’t fully comprehend what had just happened.  
“Wha...?”  
Root kissed him again; tasting wine and something sweet. He broke away.  
“What are you doing?” Angier spoke as though he were half-asleep; Root kissed him once more, and went deeper than he had dipping his tongue into his look-alikes mouth; exploring the wet and warm interior. Angier tried to pull away, but his movements were that of a man trapped in a dream; his limbs were heavy, and his reactions slow. When Root slipped his hand into Angier’s unbuttoned collar the only thing the magician could do was moan and twist.  
The actor broke the kiss again, and unbuttoned his twin’s shirt all the way as though it were the natural thing for him to do; Angier watched in a dazed fascination, and let the shirt be removed from his body. Something far back in his mind cried out that this was wrong, that he did not want this, but it was lost in the miasma of drug and wine; besides that, the warm body next to him, the tender hands exploring his body, and the soft lips on the side of his neck felt so good.   
‘How long has it been?’ He wondered, but his mind was too muddled to come up with a number; as he was lowered onto the bed a single thought made it through the fog.   
‘So long…’ All he could feel was the hands.  
They were everywhere. All over his torso, his back, his shoulders, his breasts, his belly, his waist; they dove down into his trousers and cupped his genitals. He moaned when they flooded with warmth.  
‘So good…’  
He felt chill air hit his legs as his trousers and undergarments disappeared as if by magic; he sucked in a breath when he felt finger tips being drawn up his body from the nest of dark hair all the way up to his lips that they traced. He cried a little when the hands left his body and he floated in the void; lonely and desperate for that touch, that contact again. After what seemed like an eternity the gentle hands returned, caressing his body, comforting him, promising not to leave again.  
“Julia…It’s been so long.”

* * *

As Root watched Angier move under his hands, cry out for his touch, he was overcome by a sense of heavy arousal. With every stroke, caress, and kiss Angier’s face, his face contorted; relaxing when he was petted on the belly, twitching a little when his inner thigh was tickled, and lips parting in a silent ‘oh’ when his nipples were played with. It was maddening watching his twin’s face, what could so easily be his own face contort; the movements of his body underneath him, and the glorious sounds he made! Root had almost cum when Angier cried out; it had been a sound filled with loss and desperation ending in a heartrending whimper.   
Gorgeous. Sonata from his throat; he briefly wondered if he himself could make such a sound.  
And he was curious if he could make Angier do it again.   
His hand drifted over the magician’s side, over his hip, and down his thigh; then let it slide away from the beautiful body. He knelt back to see what his reflection in the sheets would do. 

* * * 

“No! Please, Julia don’t leave me!”   
Angier tried to stand, but the soft surface underneath him was very unstable. It dropped away and reappeared under his hands; it undulated so much he was hard-pressed to keep his balance. He searched through the fog, reaching out in desperation for that needed touch.  
“Julia…”  
He began to weep.

* * *

Needless to say, Root was enjoying himself immensely.  
Seeing the magician stumble about on the mattress like a blind man intrigued him, and when he was also reminded of a toddler that had never experienced a crawl on such a giving surface and became very unsure of itself he chuckled a little. Angier was covered in sweat, and his eyes were wide and afraid; the dilated, lost expression charmed him and he smiled with tenderness and humor-filled pity. Then he heard his twin speak one word.  
“Julia…”  
That name could have ruined everything.  
Because for a moment Root became hesitant about following through with this whole show; what was he doing? What was he hoping to accomplish? That he could have sex with someone who looked like him?  
It was at this point Root could have been stopped; if he had dwelled longer on any of these questions, and not allowed the twisted ‘reason’ that came unbidden to have a say. He might have saved himself, and spared Angier the humiliation and future pain; but, unfortunately for Angier, the mind is a strange and frightening thing.   
What was he hoping to accomplish? He frowned down at the pitiful figure on his bed; little by little purpose became re-established, and a new idea sprouted in the poisoned soil of his sick brain.  
He slowly began to see the name ‘Julia’ in a different light. Julia had been Angier’s wife, and she had died right in front of his eyes; all at once Julia became a stand-in for his own wrecked theatrical career, and to drive Angier into the state of humiliation he felt necessary for his project. He had seen his career die as Angier had seen Julia die, and there had been nothing either of them could do to save it; in their anger they drove all others away from them, hating what others had, knowing it could have been theirs.  
“That’s how it is with us, isn’t it?” He reached out and stroked Angier’s side; the magician ceased his weeping; he latched onto his hand and arm, clinging to it like a drowning man, and curling up into a ball around it like a newborn.   
“How you must hate seeing the young couples out in the audience, or walking in the street, and to see Borden with his woman when yours is rotting in her grave.” He leaned over and held Angier’s naked body in his arms, and the magician let himself be engulfed.  
“I had what you have now magician, and I desperately want it again; I want that power over the masses again, I want to hear them cheer for me, to fawn over me, to be enthralled with me as they once were. Can you understand that?”  
Angier’s naked body moved against his, trying to get closer. Root watched with cold eyes; feeling the chill, sweaty skin against his cheek.  
He chuckled to himself as he bent his head down and planted a soft, tender kiss on Angier’s shoulder. “We can have that again. I’ll even let you go first.” A cruel grin spread over Root’s face, “Husband…” he said, and Angier whimpered. “Don’t be afraid Robert, I’m here now.”  
“Julia?...Julia? How? ...Oh God, oh God!  
Keeping hold of Angier’s joyfully weeping form as best as he could he slipped out of his clothes, and stepped onto the bed; he held the magician and the magician held him back. Root was quite touched at the tenderness of Angier’s arms, and as he fed his twin some more careful false-reassurance Root explored Angier’s body to his heart’s content.   
He let his hands run over the contours of muscle, the softness of lips, and the flushed heat of blushing genitals; loving every moan drawn out, and the motion of his mirrored body underneath.   
That reminded him.  
He looked over Angier’s shoulder at the elegant vanity mirror he had positioned especial for this occasion, and saw that the two of them were reflected perfectly in it. He grinned maliciously, and held his twin closer.  
“One night husband,” he whispered, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice. “One night.”  
“Then it’s my turn.”

* * *

She held him close.  
“One night husband,” she whispered. “One night.”  
She had come down from Heaven to give them one last night together; it was something out of his most wonderful and terrible dreams, he must be dreaming. He begged Julia to tell him the truth, tell him that he was dreaming, but she re-assured him patiently that this was no dream, and he was all the more joyful. Where her hands guided him he went and did what she merely suggested; anything she wanted he would do for her.   
For a short time he was happy again.  
In this mist of drug and joy he was mercifully blinded to the strange contours of the body over him, its hardness where it should have been soft, and he was deaf to the strange tone of her voice, its rough sound, and dark tone. Sadly, the drug would not stay potent forever. It was when she stopped him and took over herself that a small, distant voice that had been buzzing like mad all along far back in his mind finally reached him; a small scream that, now that he had caught it, grew louder and louder.   
‘Stop it!’ It cried, “This isn’t right!’ And the longer he listened to this scream the more he felt that it spoke the truth. He pictured a weighted down dead body breaching the surface of murky, gray water for a brief instant before being dragged back down; but something clung to that body as it was re-submerged, and that thing sent alarm bells ringing in his ears. “Pay attention!” Cried the voice. “This is not right!”  
The more his sluggish thoughts slopped around the more he realized he was in terrible trouble. Julia’s touch gradually became something repulsive to him, and he tried to squirm away, but it was like trying to move in thick mud or molasses; his limbs were so heavy! Why? And why was his head so slow? He shivered when he heard his wife laugh; no, that was not her laugh. Julia never laughed like that; this one was full of malevolence, and wicked humor; he cringed away when he saw her mouth split into a nasty, toothy grin that made him think of a wolf ready to rip out the throat of its helpless prey. “Running away so soon Robert? I thought you loved me.”  
“Y-You’re not…you’re not her” It was so hard to speak.  
“Oh caught on have you? About time Robert.”  
His very bones froze as the words cut through the fog, clear and horridly recognizable.  
Root.  
He tried to fight, but when his doppelganger easily flipped him over onto his stomach he realized he had long since lost.

* * *

“You had your moment,” Root growled. “Now it’s my turn.”  
He straddled Angier’s hips, pressing his victim’s shoulders into the mattress and holding the weakly kicking legs down with his own. He wasted no time now. He spread Angier and with brutal disregard for comfort forced himself halfway inside the virgin-tight opening; lack of lubricant would cost them both in the morning, but Root was too far gone in excitement to feel the pain, he could only hear Angier’s hurting cries.  
He grabbed a fist-full of Angier’s hair and wrenched his head up so he could see the two of them reflected in the vanity mirror; Root’s face was contorted into a mix between a grin and a snarl.  
“Want to see a trick magician? Want to see me turn into a myth? Into a God? I’ll need a volunteer from the audience.” He thrust with his hips, and Angier cried out. “So nice of you Robert.” He thrust again to his hilt, and bit Angier’s ear rasping “Now watch closely.” With each powerful thrust and quickening breath they merged a little more; melding into a grotesquely beautiful parody of Siamese twins (anger and bitterness merged with retribution and ambition Root would think later), and as the blood pounded in the newly forming God and his vassal of creation a horrible darkness welled up in his mind that filled him with great fear. This darkness he could see his faces reflected back at him, and he reeled back as though struck causing Angier to scream in unwanted thrill; when the darkness became realization he was flooded over in horrifying ecstasy which caused his scream of passion to be laced with terror.  
The two of them collapsed on the bed and passed out; their naked conjoined bodies framed perfectly in the wood-carved structure of the mirror, and their heavy, shaking breaths echoed in the now-quiet room.


	8. Chapter 8

Act four commenced two days later.   
It had been no chore for Root to make Angier keep silent about that night; all it took were some well-versed threats to go to the police and say that Angier was a homosexual, and had participated in such an activity. “You’re career will be ruined.” Root had said. “I will make damn sure of it; your reputation, your life, I will destroy it. Don’t think that I can’t; it just takes a few words in the right ears, and I know those ears.”  
And he spoke the truth, so Angier had remained silent to the pleasure of the actor; now they could get on with the show.  
Root had moved the cart with the bags of hay out of the way as he had agreed, and felt some satisfaction when he heard the sickening *snap!* of the magician’s leg. After walking out on stage and dismissing the audience he threw on his coat, and walked right out of the theater to his apartment where he destroyed the large mirror by taking a hammer to it. Thousands of glass shards littered his floor like diamonds, and his broken reflection stared blankly back up at him. He changed his clothes, tossing the fine suit out the window for some trash-digger or passer-by to find, pulled on his boots, and was careful to crunch the shards under his feet as he exited his home and made for the nearest bar.  
With the money Borden had paid him to remove the landing cart he told the bartender to keep the drinks coming until the money ran out (which he knew would not be for a long while. He chose a stool at the far end of the bar, hidden in the shadows and with his back to the wall he began to drink, and reflect.  
When Borden had found out the method Angier had been using for the trick he sought Root out two days after he had signed the confidentiality contract, and made him an offer. Root had considered for a few days, and returned to Borden with a request; pay him to do the job plus a little extra, and not to try anything himself. Borden had wanted to take the deal off the table when Root talked about a lengthy operation, but Root had assured him that he needed to establish a rapport with the two men first; Borden agreed after a time, and the deal was struck.  
Root used the extra money to pay the Chinaman for his drug mixture and wine; it had been a bit nerve-wracking for Borden whenever he saw the marquee up for Angier’s act, but Root was always able to assure him that it would be soon. The rival magician had been relieved when Root came by to tell him not to miss this performance; he hoped Borden was happy now, because he certainly wasn’t.  
It wasn’t what he had done tonight, or even two nights ago; it was what he had seen in the mirror that disturbed him to the point where sleep had been near impossible. He had seen himself for what he truly was that night, and that lead him to some rather sobering conclusions. His bitterness at the world and his failures consumed him so, and in his anger and shame he had never really tried to get back on his feet; seeing the applauding crowd again had added fuel to the fire, and in his attempt to recapture his former-self by using someone who looked like him had succeeded for a moment, but he had failed in his mission. He had touched Narcissus, but just like the mythos he had been unable to capture it.  
He reached into his coat-pocket and pulled out a tiny glass vile; another drug he had purchased with Borden’s money. He poured the white powder into the alcohol, re-pocketed the vile, and thought darkly, “You and I are so much alike Angier, maybe too much. We reach for the unobtainable; you will never have your revenge, I predict that for you, and I know now I shall never have the life I once did. No matter how hard we try, how gently we’ll touch the surface of the pond; our dreams will always shatter, like the mirror, like Narcissus. We can’t have the beauty; Angier, and we can’t have what we desire, but we can touch it for a moment.”   
As he rubbed his thumb over the metal mug’s handle waiting for the powder to dissolve completely he wondered at how silly Narcissus had seemed back then, but that story had stayed with him, hidden deep inside until Angier came into his life. Root was Narcissus, he knew that now. He had seen his own reflection, so perfect and pure; he had taken his reflection, done physically what his mythos-counterpart had been unable to do. He had taken Angier, forced himself upon him, he imagined he took away what little sanity the magician had left tonight, leaving him wounded with a broken leg that would eventually turn into a limp and sad, broken trick.   
He drank the tainted amber liquid, guzzling his way to oblivion; it didn’t take long for the drug to take effect as promised, no doubt remained in Root’s mind that the Chinaman was good with his mixtures. The world around him was becoming darker, and darker, but he was too far gone with the alcohol to care; he fixed his eyes on the greasy yellow light of an oil lamp off in the corner of the bar, and in its light he saw himself and his sister Rebecca laid out on their beds. She was reading to him from a heavy book of Greek mythology, reading his favorite one.

“Narcissus gazed into the pond with wonder, for there, amidst the water-lilies and rushes was the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life. ‘Who are you?’ Narcissus whispered to the young man and reached out a hand to touch the face that had so filled him with awe, but the moment his fingers brushed the waters’ surface the face broke apart and ran back together. So infatuated with the face in the water Narcissus had not realized that he was staring at his own reflection.”

He felt himself drifting slowly into a dark abyss and as he drifted he saw his face, floating in front of him lit by a dying candle. He reached out to take it in his hands, to touch ecstasy, to become Narcissus again, just once more. But when he touched the face it broke into a million little pieces that tinkled and fell, shimmering into the black. A soft moan was the last noise anyone heard him utter in this world as his body shut down, the candle blew out, and the darkness closed in over him for the last time.


End file.
